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My Therapist
My therapist asked me to describe pain. “It tastes like metal,” I said—like the tang of blood you can’t spit out,the kind that lingers at the back of your throatlong after the wound is made. It smells like raintrapped in a room with no windows—damp, heavy, refusing to leave. It sounds like a door closing…
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How Much More?
Hmm… tell me—how much more of myself must I spillbefore you notice the mess I’m drowning in? How many nights must I trade for morningsthat never bring your warmth?How many breaths must I hold backso you can keep breathing easy? Tell me,how much more of these tearsmust I wastefor my cries to finallyreach your ears?…
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THEY SAY I’M BLIND
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Final Goodbye
Final goodbye…. The night falls and its all silenceWithin the walls of my brains are deep thoughts insolance It’s wars and storms recruiting thundersIt left my gut in wonders as i felt the connection before the intact connectionCould it be that I am also the one feeling the concussion of seperation?Huh….?I mean how do I?How…
